Bitter
by Seafoamscribbles
Summary: Benjamin Linus is not a man known to show any signs of weakness. But everyone is entitled to feel vulnerable from time to time. All characters property of the television show LOST.


Ben's thoughts and feelings concerning his role as "leader" or the Others. All of the pressure that comes with his responsibilities. Needing love in his life, loneliness, isolation, distance.

He sat at the kitchen table, back hunched with his elbows resting on the lightly stained wood. An empty bottle of Merlot stood atop the small table, a crystal wine glass perching just beside it. The soft hum of violins filled the room, a record spinning slowly on the turntable above the small television.

Candles squatted on the edge of the small kitchen counter, flames flickering timidly from behind the waxy, white rims. The air was warm and sweet with their mild vanilla scent.

His head was bowed, eyes pressed into the palms of his hands. He breathed slowly and deliberately, concentrating on the subtle rise and fall of his chest. His hands lowered slowly, folding carefully before him on the table. His chin rose as he scanned the room. The curtains were open against the evening, welcoming the damp darkness of the jungle.

He clumsily grabbed at the stem of the stout wine glass, swallowing the last mouthful of wine. He closed his eyes momentarily, enjoying the spinning sensation that had been building since he finished his first glass. He let out a slow breath of air, slumping some in the ridged wooden chair.

With his eyes closed, her face was the only thing he could see. Golden hair fell in loose waves over her pointed shoulders, blue eyes creased in a smile. She turned her chin slightly to face him, her eyes boring into his.

Ben's hand shot up, pinching the bridge of his nose. He leaned back some in the chair, tilting his head back, feeling the blood rush from his temples, down his neck. He opened his eyes again, staring blankly up at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw pulled taut as he envisioned them together. She was always hovering just behind him, right under the nose of his domineering wife. She had to know. She just had to. How had she not stepped in? Or perhaps she had. How was he to know? No one told him anything anymore.

But her. He remembered the moment he set foot on that doorstep. His heart was pounding. He hadn't even seen her face and he could feel the pounding against his ribs. He held a bouquet of wild flowers. Stupid, juvenile. What had possessed him? He still didn't have a solid answer for that. But as she approached the front porch, he felt his knees buckle. It didn't matter then. Nothing mattered.

She would not look at him. When they spoke, her eyes would meet his, and she would tell him everything he knew she thought he wanted to hear. Her mouth would move and every word would be predetermined, ridged, cold. But her eyes were dead. He hated looking into those eyes. He knew they looked right through him. She wasn't looking at him at all. She was looking at the man she molded him into. The man who tortured her. The man who destroyed what she had known as her life. The man that had lied to her. The hatred behind those blue eyes was enough to make his stomach lurch and writhe.

She never once

looked at him.

Another image fought its way into his mind's eye. Brown curls framing the tanned skin, green eyes atop the smooth slope of her pointed nose. Brow always furrowed in a hateful glare. He hadn't been able to speak to her in months. Well, not really speak to her, anyway. She would never allow him. It was always as a dictator. Barking orders. Discipline. Restriction. Punishment.

She hated him more than he liked to believe.

How long had it been since he had seen her laugh? Since he had seen her smile? He knew he had to separate them. They spent too much time together. Too much time alone. It wasn't good for her. She was a child, for God's sake. A child. Children know nothing of love.

They don't need to know.

What did he know of love? Everything he had even considered important didn't really matter. Anyone he ever cared about didn't really matter. He didn't matter to them, anyway. What was it like, having someone to care for you? Someone to ask where you've been. Or where you're going.

Ben wondered about this often.

He heard a door open and shut. The shuffle of sneakers on the hard wood floor. The rustling of a jacket being thrown onto the sofa. He heard a small gasp. The footsteps quickened, stopping only inches away. Was there someone there? He felt so tired, his eyelids would not budge.

"Christ in heaven…Ben. Get up."

How had his cheek found its way to the hard wood of the table? His head would not stop swimming. His legs weighed thousands of pounds, he would never be able to move them. Arms lay in a sprawling heap around his head, fingers still clinging to the overturned wine glass.

"Ben. Can you hear me? Did you drink that entire bottle?"

That voice. Why was she here? She said she wouldn't be coming home. He had given up trying to stop her. Where could she go, in the end?

"Ben, you're gonna need to answer me. I can't read your mind.

He was supposed to respond. He swallowed. His throat felt dry and cracked.

"Al…Alex?"

"Oh my God, Ben you can't be that wasted. One bottle of wine? Come on."

Ben lifted his head from the table, rubbing a hand limply across his forehead.

"No I…I had some…um…earlier I…" he gestured towards a row of cabinets in the far corner of the small kitchen. He heard the figure beside him sigh heavily.

"Ben if you don't lay off the scotch, we are really gonna have a problem. Come on, get up."

He felt a small pain shoot from one temple to the other as he squinted up at the figure. He winced, placing a hand on his forehead once more. He tried to stand up, but the floor beneath him seemed to tilt violently to the right. He stumbled, scrambling to grab the edge of the table. The chair legs screeched against the wooden floor as his leg violently struck it, both hands steadying him against the small table.

"Woah! Ben! Slow down…come on…"

He felt two hands softly grab onto his right arm. He slowly moved in their direction. A hand took his, slinging it over two small shoulders. He leaned against them, maybe too much as the figure lead him across the room. He half fell onto the soft cushions of the couch, sinking into the soft fabric, his chin resting against his chest.

"No…Ben…come on. At least lay down."

His feet swung onto the couch as he fell onto the cushions, opening his eyes slightly. He squinted, the outlines of the room fuzzy and vague. The pounding in his head was dull and constant. The couch felt as though it was floating on the ocean surf, slowly bobbing up and down on the swells. He groaned slightly, wincing as his stomach churned with the perceived motion.

"Here, I'll get you some water."

Feet hurried across the floor. The hiss of water from a sink. The feet returned. He felt a presence lean close, a hand cupping the back of his neck, lifting his head slightly. Cool glass pressed against his lips.

"Drink a little. It'll make you feel better."

He forced down two small gulps before shaking his head, trying in vain to pull away. Another sigh, the glass clinked against a nearby coffee table. He heard the figure move and felt his left shoe being tugged from his foot. The right pulled off after. A blanket fell softly over his frame. Small hands tucked the edges beneath his chin. A moment of silence. Violins still humming in the background.

"Are you okay?"

The voice was soft now. There was less bitterness in the words. Ben cleared his throat.

"Yes…thank you."

"Well…let me know if you need anything…okay? I'm gonna sleep out here for a bit…"

"You don't have to do that…"

"Don't worry about it. I'm not too tired anyway."

Ben felt his lips pull back in a small smile. He opened his eyes again, forcing himself to look up. He stared into Alex's eyes as she hovered over him, brows furrowed. But he saw no hatred behind her gaze.

"Thank you Alex," he managed, his eyelids sliding shut once more. He heard Alex rise again, the dim light of the candles extinguished. The hum of the violins silenced. He heard her sink into the seat of the armchair to his left, the shuffling of material as she situated herself.

Another moment of silence.

He felt himself slipping down, the dizziness subsiding into a soft sway.

"Sleep well, Dad."


End file.
